


The Match

by jolymusichetta



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arm Westling, Gen, General Friendship - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:26:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolymusichetta/pseuds/jolymusichetta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel arm wrestles Prouvaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Match

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EphemeralScherzo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EphemeralScherzo/gifts).



> Aaron was tired of frail Prouvaire and wanted a fic about Jehan and Bahorel arm wrestling.

“I’m telling you, Bahorel,” Feuilly said from where he was trying to keep pace with his friend. “You’re going to lose.”

Bahorel scoffed, turning to look at Feuilly with an incredulous look, shaking his head after a moment. “I’m arm wrestling Jehan. Jehan. The guy writes poetry about death.” He continued walking towards the Musain. Normally, it was just their place for their meetings but now it was going to be an arena for their friends, all coming to watch Bahorel and Jehan arm wrestle. “Ten minutes from now, I will be twenty euros richer.”

“Wait, you upped it after I left? It was ten euros.”

“Yep. Jehan did. I don’t mind though. I’m getting it anyway.” He pushed open the door to the Musain and, without even looking, he grabbed Joly by the collar and pulled him away from where he had been leaning against the bar, talking to Musichetta, trying to get her to come out with him after work on a second date

“I’ll call you,” he said as he was dragged away, towards the back room and shoved towards a seat next between Bossuet, who had a new bandage on his arm, and Grantaire, who looked closer to tipsy than to sober, but neither of those were unusual.

Courfeyrac grinned at their approach and stood up on the table, earning a look from Combeferre – “We eat off that table” – but paid him no mind. “Gentlemen!”

“Fuck you, Courfeyrac!” 

“Gentlemen and Éponine,” Courfeyrac corrected. “Are you ready to rumble?!”

“Get on with it so I can have my meeting already,” Enjolras said from the other end of the table, looking a bit annoyed but anyone who looked closely enough could see the corners of his mouth twitching, fighting back a smile. 

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “Maybe if the peanut gallery would stop interrupting. In this corner, we have Jean Prouvaire, sixty eight kilos of pure anger! And in this corner, we have Bahorel, fifty eight kilos of pure fury and thirteen kilos of pure bullshit!” He got a punch in the arm for that. “Gentleman, please put down your bets.” Prouvaire pulled out a twenty euro note from his wallet and dropped it on his side of the table. Bahorel did the same, smirking. Courfeyrac stepped off the table then, dropping down to sit in Enjolras' normal chair.

“You’re going down, Prouvaire,” Bahorel said, sitting down at the table. Jehan sat down across from Bahorel, laughing. “You wish,” he said.

“Also, there’s been a sudden change of rules. We will be timing it,” Grantaire cut in, looking over at Courfeyrac with a shit eating grin. “And if Prouvaire can beat Bahorel’s old record then he will get an additonal ten euros, courtesy of our good friend Joly.”

Joly just rolled his eyes. “I don’t understand why I let you drag me into these things,” he said with a hint of fondness in his voice.

Bahorel and Prouvaire both rolled up their sleeves, placing their elbows on the table as Combeferre got his phone out of his pocket, Bahorel’s best time labelled as such. He opened up a new timer and gave Courfeyrac a nod.

“On your marks … get set … go!” On his word, Combeferre began timing and Bahorel began trying to pin Jehan’s arm.

Jehan didn’t even look impressed as his hand started moving towards the table but after a moment, he seemed to actually put effort into it and Bahorel’s hand hit the table. He reached across and took the twenty euros Bahorel put down, along with his own. “Thank you,” he said said, smirking as he put the money in his wallet.

“Bahorel’s record was 14.7 seconds and Prouvaire’s new record is 12.4 seconds. Prouvaire has officially set a new record with in Les Amis!” Combeferre announced as Joly took out a ten euro note and slid it over to Jehan. Bossuet just gave Joly a five euro note to make it so they split it.

Bahorel just gave Jehan a look, eyes wide. “No one’s ever beaten me before.” 

Jehan shrugged, leaning back in his seat. “There’s a new champion in the Amis then,” he replied.

Feuilly shot Bahorel a smug look. “I told you so.”

Enjolras cleared his throat and stood. “I still can’t believe you guys bet,” he said, shaking his head as he went to the front of the table and looking at Courfeyrac. “Do you mind?”

"Not at all,” Courfeyrac said with a cheeky grin, gesturing for Enjolras to sit on his lap. Enjolras just whacked the back of his head, hard enough for him to feel it.

“What is it, abuse Courfeyrac day?” Courfeyrac asked as he slid into the empty seat next to Bahorel. Combeferre grinned.

“Shall we mark it official?” he asked with a teasing lilt to his voice. Courfeyrac settled into his chair and stuck his tongue out at him, rolling his eyes.

Éponine stood then. “And we’re getting to the boring politics part. I’m out,” she said, ruffling Grantaire’s hair as she passed by and headed out. As she left, Marius came in, looking pathetically flustered and hopelessly happy.

"What did I miss?”


End file.
